


I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship

by vaguely_concerned



Series: Scoundrels and Thieves 'verse [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Origin Story, M/M, canon AU, young mchanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguely_concerned/pseuds/vaguely_concerned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How they meet in this ‘verse. There are exciting shootouts and some really shitty coffee, and McCree has spurs that jingle jangle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship

Just as he reached what was undeniably Deadlock territory - it was written on several signs along the way, they were not going for subtlety - his father called him.

“Hanzo,” his father said warmly. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Hanzo said. “I’m almost there.”

“Ah, good. And how is your brother?”

“He... couldn’t come. Upset stomach.”

“Ah. Well.” They both knew the code, and the slight tinge of disappointment to his father’s voice never stopped stinging. “That kind of thing happens when one travels, I suppose. Foreign food, jet lag. Maybe next time.”

Hanzo allowed himself a moment of weakness, scuffing his shoes against the desert sand. He watched the small clouds of dust that puffed up. “Yes. Next time.”

“Good luck, Hanzo,” his father said. “Just remember what we talked about before you left. They may be grubby, but I really think we are onto something here. I have every confidence in you.”

“I - thank you.”

But he’d already hung up.

Genji was still back at the hotel room, soon to wake up to what Hanzo was sure would be a phenomenal hangover. He’d known he would have to go to the meeting on his own when he’d heard the loud song from the other end of the hallway.

He sighed and turned towards the closest building, which looked like some kind of garage. Might as well get on with it.

When he entered the garage the first thing he saw was an elderly man with a baseball cap fiddling with something under a car, possibly the hover generators. He talked to himself, a low amiable ramble.

Hanzo cleared his throat.

The man wriggled out from under the car. He wore glasses so thick that his eyes took up half of his wrinkled face, giving him an air of constant befuddlement. “And who might you be?”

“My name is Hanzo Shimada. I am here about the deal,” Hanzo said, inconspicuously trying to stand in such a way that no part of him touched anything in the crowded room. The workshop looked like a breeding ground for new and hitherto unimagined strains of tetanus - rusty metal and dismantled electronics spewing their innards over the concrete floor, crusted-over paint buckets haphazardly stacked in piles.

The man squinted at him. “What was that now?”

Patience. His father had sent him here. He had a duty to fulfill. “I am here representing the Shimada clan. It is about the experimental nanotech in your possession.”

“Aw yeah, the Japanese thing. The yakuza mafia ninja dealie. Gotcha.” He snapped his fingers, eyes crinkling behind the glasses. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect them to be sendin’ a kid to clinch the deal.”

He really did need to do something with his hair. He’d grow a beard if he could, but it didn’t seem feasible yet – but frankly, anything to look older and avoid these situations. Maybe it was just as well Genji wasn’t here.

“Right you are, son, right you are. McCree’s your man, then. He’ll be out back by the diner,” he gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “I don’t rightly understand any of it, but he’s got the head for that kinda stuff. Look for the hat - you’ll know it when you see it.”

Hanzo did indeed know it when he saw it.

McCree turned out to be surprisingly young - well, he must be around Hanzo’s own age, but the point still stood. He seemed to wield an unexpected level of authority for someone who could barely be of voting age, anyway. Other than that the first impression was, Hanzo suspected, carefully cultivated - he didn’t see any other reason why the man should make everyone else feel like they were incongruous walk-ons in an old Western movie. He had the Stetson hat, the revolver hanging from the leather belt at his hip, the bandana tied loosely around his neck. He stood leaned back against the wall behind some crates, smoking a cigarette with his eyes closed and his head tipped back.

He had _spurs_ on his _boots_.

“Would you be McCree?”

McCree cracked one eye open at him, then the other, kicking out from the wall to stand upright. He was taller than Hanzo had thought without the slouch. “Absolutely. Jesse McCree, in the flesh. Who’s askin’?”  

“I am Hanzo Shimada. I am here on behalf of - ”

McCree’s stoic expression cracked open for a brief smile, a certain swagger to it, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His _eyes_ were shifty and watchful - like a wild dog, maybe, or a cornered wolf. “Right, the Shimada clan. Heard some rumors you’d be interested in this, but I didn’t really dare hold out hope.”

“It is cutting edge technology,” Hanzo said. “Staying ahead of the curve could be very lucrative for us. Though I suppose I should not inquire as to how it ended up in your hands.”

McCree waggled his head. “Probably wise, yeah.”

“We thought meeting up in person would convey how seriously we take this.”

“Hell, you didn’t need to come all the way out here to butter us up. We’d be fools not to grab this chance with both hands. Scratch that, with all hands available.” He scratched thoughtfully at his stubbled cheek. _He_ could have grown a beard if he wanted to. “I’m guessing you’re not keen on coming here again to make the trade.”

“We have a randomized rotation of neutral places to make the exchange. You will be informed of where to show up within the week. Unless you have any misgivings about that?”

“Name the place and time, we’ll be there.” He dropped his cigarette to the sand and ground it out with his heel.  The spurs made a jangling sound. Hanzo did his best not to make a face. “Well, I’ll be there, anyway. The rest of the gang ain’t what you’d call masters of circumspection. Should we get inside and iron out the finer points, or...”

“Very well.”

It was not the kind of meeting Hanzo could have ever prepared for. They sat in a booth in a shabby diner, musty condiments still on their trays. McCree offered him coffee - first warning him that it was really, _really_ shitty coffee - and Hanzo tried not wrinkle his nose at the smell as he politely declined. With a shrug McCree poured himself a mug of what on second glance was revealed be _cold_ shitty coffee, which seemed like the act of an ongoing human catastrophe more than anything.

McCree sat leaned back with one arm resting on the back of the booth, a slouch entirely designed to convey carelessness, but his questions were incisive and all his terms well thought out and to the point, his price hitting the sweet spot of high but not unreasonable. You got the feeling that he saw a lot more of you than you could glimpse of him. Cleverer than he looked at first glance, then. Hanzo resolved to not try pulling one over on him, now or in the future.

“Right,” McCree said once they’d exhausted every angle. He sat up straighter, draining the rest of his disgusting coffee. “I think that’s a deal I can live with.”

Hanzo got up with some relief - the booth was slightly sticky, and he didn’t particularly want to know what with. “It seems acceptable on our side as well.”

They walked away from the diner, standing in the open where several other Deadlock members gave them curious looks as they swarmed about. The elderly mechanic from before gave Hanzo a cheery wave in passing.

”Ah. So you’ve met Hubert already, then,” McCree said in his drawl of an accent. ”He didn’t say anything... impolite, did he?”

Hanzo felt the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth but managed to keep it down. He knew he should present a solemn front to show that he took this seriously, but the sarcasm broke its way out anyway. ”Only that he was surprised my family had sent a ’kid’ to settle the ’yakuza mafia ninja dealie’.”

”Oh dear.” McCree made a face. ”Uh, sorry about that. He hasn’t been the same since that spanner fell on his head last year.”

”It did not bother me.”

They stood by some fuel pumps in awkward silence.

“So that’s all settled, then,” McCree said after a while.

“...yes.”

Hanzo’s father never had this problem; he always seemed to know what to say.

McCree finally saved them both, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb. “Well, I’ve got some work to be getting on with, so if that’s all for now…”

Hanzo nodded gratefully, said his formal goodbyes and walked away.

 

\-------

 

The meeting place turned out to be a high-end hotel in some Scandinavian country - a giant glass building interspersed with hard light construction, making you feel like you were trapped inside of a diamond. It was the middle of winter and the landscape outside lay shrouded in darkness at most times of the day, crowding in oppressively against the windows. It would be a relief to leave.

The hotel room was too warm because Genji had taken the opportunity to fiddle with the temperature controls while Hanzo’s back was turned. Now he was sprawled out on his back on the bed, pouting as Hanzo did up the buttons of his shirt.

“Why can’t I come too?” Genji complained. “I’m not a _child_ anymore.”

“Then stop whining like one. You are too young for them to let you into the restaurant, and I don’t have the time, inclination or pocket money to change their minds.”

“Aw, come _on_ ,” Genji said, kicking his feet good-naturedly over the edge of the bed. “Is this payback for that time I didn’t come with you to the Deadlock thing? It is, isn’t it.”

“Wherever would you get that idea from.”

In truth the problem was more that Genji was, in all situations, an irrepressible force of cheerfulness, a trait that did not go well with clandestine black market dealings. Sooner or later he would wave down a waiter and have a chat with them, or start an impromptu sing song if he was drunk enough, or _somehow_ find an elderly woman and end up cooing over pictures of her grandchildren. He was an indomitable socialite and there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do about that.

Genji pushed up on his elbows. “What’s the meeting actually about, again?”

Hanzo repressed a sigh as he slid the cufflinks into place. “Maybe if you really wanted to contribute to the business you’d _pay attention_ for once.”

“I _do_ pay attention!” Genji protested, then at Hanzo’s look added, “sometimes.”

“Mhm. Just… sit here quietly. This won’t take long.”

“I’ll just be here, then. Languishing while you hobnob with cowboys in fancy restaurants. Watching terrible Swedish television. Breaking into the minibar.”

Hanzo gave Genji’s forehead a friendly slap on his way out. He smiled a little as Genji’s laughter followed him out the door.

Their room was high up, which was slightly daunting as the only things between him and the floor six storeys down were the crisscrossing glass walkways that lead to the elevators. He was not afraid of heights, but it did seem like a potential health and safety nightmare.

Once he reached the ground floor one of his guards sidled up to him with a silver suitcase, giving a short bow after handing it over. Hanzo irritably waved him away. How very discreet.

He found McCree leaned up against an aesthetically placed concrete pillar by the entrance to the restaurant, thumb hooked into a belt loop. He still looked vaguely scruffy, like there was nothing he could do that would really scrub the desert sand off him, but there were signs that he’d made an effort - his hair seemed a little neater, he’d clearly tried to shave recently enough that the stubble wouldn’t be back yet, and the black suit was clean, if a little too big on him him. He’d even left his hat behind for the occasion.

“Hey there,” McCree said. “I almost went in there and ordered some ostentatious canapes while I was waitin'.”

Hanzo couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Then I am glad to see you managed to restrain yourself.”

McCree shrugged. He gave no hint of nervousness - or if he did, it didn’t show in any way Hanzo knew how to read.

“Are you ready?” Hanzo asked.

“What's there to be ready for? Just a nice legitimate business dinner between two nice legitimate businessmen. Nothing suspicious about it.”

Hanzo could hardly point out that McCree would not pass for a nice legitimate businessman on any continent on Earth, not with that smile. That smiled raised Cain just by existing.

They were shown to a table, standing there while the waiter scurried off to find a lighter for the candles.

“Fancy,” McCree said, looking around at the white tablecloths, the delicately folded serviettes and the crystal chandeliers. “A bit like being inside a giant glass Rubik’s cube, though, ain’t it. I’m not sure where to look half the time.”

 It was an apt description. Hanzo hid a chuckle under the pretense of straightening his cufflinks.

As they waited a man dressed all in black took up position by the door to the kitchen. He didn’t look like a waiter, unless the uniform here included bullet proof vests and a mask that completely obscured the lower half of your face. Another one turned up by the main exit half a minute later. Hanzo’s instincts uttered a warning growl.

“Sit down,” he hissed, pulling McCree with him to the table and all but shoving him into the chair. His mind raced – his little brother was upstairs, hopefully out of harm’s way at least for now. He’d need to get up to their room and get him as soon as possible, then drag him and McCree to safety by the scruff of their necks if he had to.

“Yeah, I saw. I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” McCree said, pretending to pick up and scan the menu. The tendons on the back of his hands were tensed. More of the black clad people trickled in.

“I think you are right to.”

“So… what d’you say to oysters? I mean, theoretically, since we’re not actually getting dinner.”

Hanzo needed a few seconds to get that one. “I would say that they are disgusting.”

“The only right answer to that one,” McCree agreed, sliding his hand under his jacket and revealing the holstered revolver. Ah. That was why his suit was too large. Smart. It was a bit insulting that he had thought it would be necessary, though - the Shimadas always honored their deals. “Like swallowing slugs. There ain’t enough lemon in the _world_.”

When the people in black sprang into action they did so all at once, setting off a cacophony of yells, gunshots and the scrape of chairs.

“Everybody stay right where you are and this doesn’t have to be unpleasant,” said one of the gunmen to the room in general. There was a sound like the crackle of electricity, a short scream and then one of the guards Hanzo had positioned around the building fell through the doorway to the kitchens and onto the carpet, clearly unconscious. Hanzo took the time to roll his eyes as McCree flipped the table over and they both dove into cover behind it. The family’s standards really had fallen. He would have to take a keener interest in the recruitment process; this was just pathetic.

Cutlery and plates and glassware rained around them as the other diners  screamed. The people dressed all in black zeroed in on one specific table occupied by a rotund middle aged man and a skinny younger woman.

“Now, then, Mr. Løvgren,” said one of the masked men. “Why don’t you and your wife come with us? Our employer is fond of bankers, you see. He’d like to have you both for dinner. Oh, and all of your hired goons are taken care of, so don’t go getting any funny ideas about that.”

They weren’t even the targets of the hostage-takers, then; they had simply been caught in the crossfire. Hanzo felt vaguely offended.

McCree clutched his revolver, clearly ready to use it. That was probably  the right idea, though the one simple gun did seem hopelessly inadequate under the circumstances. “Any thoughts on how to approach this? A lot of civilians here. Could get real messy real fast.”

Hanzo flipped the silver suitcase open, removed the layer that contained the cash and fished out the compact bow and the quiver from under the false bottom. He proceeded to unfold the bow with movements so ingrained they might as well have been animal instinct. McCree stared at him, wide-eyed.

“What?”

“I’d been wondering what you had in there. That, uh, that wasn’t what I was expectin’.”

“Hm.”

Hanzo glanced down at a silver plate that had crashed to the floor and picked it up, holding it so it mirrored the far corner of the room. “...five,” he muttered to himself, mapping out their positions in his head. He could skewer two of them in the thigh with one shot if he did it quickly, before one of them moved.

“Six,” McCree corrected him, darting a look around the edge of the table. “No, seven, there’s a sniper up top. This guy must have pissed someone off in the eight digit number sort of way.”

He was right; there was another woman in the shadows by the door and a sniper perched on top of the walkway three storeys up. Hanzo felt a stab of annoyance at himself, but he didn’t have time to wallow. First the sniper.

It was not a good angle, nor a lot of space. He kneeled up, enough to be able to draw the bow and still stay behind cover, McCree leaning away as far as he could to avoid his elbow. Hanzo suddenly noticed his left arm was bleeding - he must have cut himself on some broken glass on the way down - and the blood had trickled down to his hand and made his grip slippery. He swore internally and tightened his hold to make up for it.

A different man waved his gun at the other diners. “Get the hell out of here, all of you. We’re not paid to deal with any of you.”

None of them needed to be told twice. When the stampede was over only a few waiters were left, cowering in the corners.

“Well, that’s a spot of luck. Are we just incapacitating ‘em, or...” McCree mused. As if on cue, one of the hostage-takers shot the banker’s wife in the knee and she let out a high, panicked scream and folded over.  A few of the other gunmen sniggered. “Yeah, okay, headshots it is. What a bunch of assholes.”

Hanzo shrugged; he didn’t really have a preference either way. Unleashing the dragons in a confined space like this would likely just end in tears for everyone involved. They would have to do this the conventional way. “I can work with that.”

“I’ll cover you,” McCree said, a wrinkle of concentration between his brows. “On three?”

“Very well. I will take care of the one up top.”

McCree nodded and counted under his breath. “One… two… three, let’s go!”

Hanzo stood up quick as a bolt of lightning to take the shot - and by the time he ducked down again the sniper had clutched at their chest and toppled over the railings. Nice and clean. It would do.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw McCree take aim and shoot a glass at an empty table, distracting two of the gunmen very briefly before there were two more shots and both of them fell limply to the ground, never to get up again. Hanzo and McCree both curled up behind their improvised cover once more.  

“That’s a start. Three down, four to go.” McCree jumped as a hail of bullets tore through the table, leaving ragged holes between them. “Holy shit.”

“Over there, behind that table! Take them down!”

They moved to stay behind the unscathed parts of the table, which grew fewer with every second.

Hanzo was pressed up into a corner between the wall, the pillar and the table – he was not going to be able to do much like this. “Get the one with the assault rifle!”

“What the _hell_ do you think I’m trying to do?” McCree barked, sending off a couple of shots more or less blindly. “Okay, last bullet. Shit. Oh well, Hail Mary and all that.”

He took an extra half second to aim this time, his head out in the open for a precariously long time, then pulled the trigger. There were two sounds in quick succession - first metal clattering  to the ground, and then the dull thud of a body collapsing. McCree let out a satisfied chuckle and sat back down next to Hanzo.

The remainders of the gunmen were starting to catch on. “Jesus Christ on a goddamn bicycle! Watch out, they’ve got some kind of crazy gun!”

“Forget that, someone has a freaking _bow and arrow!_ ” said one of the female hostage-takers, pulling the arrow from the chest of the sniper now lying on the floor, limbs broken into odd angles.  

Another woman started towards the emergency exit. “Screw this, I didn’t sign up to fight some fucked up Robin Hood - I’m outta here!”

“Right behind you,” the first one said, still clutching the arrow as she sprinted away like her life depended on it - which, admittedly, it did.

“Not sporting to take them down when their backs are turned, right?” McCree mumbled, reloading the revolver. “I mean, they’re clearly smarter than the rest of them. Natural selection and all that.”

Hanzo shrugged again. “Let them scurry back to their employer. Maybe it will give them something to worry about for a while.”

”Keep ’em occupied chasing after shadows. Gotcha.”

The banker looked at them wildly and supported his wife as they hurried for the exit. McCree waved cheerfully at him from behind the table, then blew out a long breath.

“That was some devil’s luck right there.”

Hanzo didn’t quite know that English idiom but thought he got the gist of it, so he just made a vague sound of agreement and pushed to his feet. His left arm still stung insistently. McCree stood up next to him, shaking out his right hand. Then his brow wrinkled.

“Hold up, now,” McCree said. “That still just makes six of th -”

They looked at each other with the same horrible realization just as a bullet flew past and buried itself in the concrete floor. The seventh and last man stepped out from behind a pillar, going right for them.

“Get down!” McCree yelled, barreling into Hanzo and sending them both sprawling into the ground, but it was too late, the finger already squeezing the trigger, the barrel pointed squarely at -

A blur of speed and the sound of metal on metal; the shooter fell to the ground screaming, clutching at his wrist. McCree shot up  and kicked the man’s gun away into a corner, planting his boot in the man’s gut for good measure to really make sure he wasn’t getting up anytime soon.

Genji lowered his sword, nodding approvingly. “I’m getting better at this, it would seem. I should work on the angle, though - here.”

He reached out his hand and hauled Hanzo back to his feet.

“Genji,” Hanzo began, out of breath. “What are you - ”

“I thought you might need some help, brother.” Genji grinned his bright boy smile. “I told you: I do pay attention every now and then.”

And Hanzo would have liked to be be angry with him for throwing himself directly into harm’s way, he really would, but his arm was still aching where he’d fallen on it and his little brother’s face was beaming - he couldn’t find it in him. He patted Genji’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“What the hell _are_ you guys - ” began the hostage-taker, clutching his now bleeding wrist to his chest, but McCree placed the toe of his boot on the man’s forearm and put the tiniest bit of pressure into it - enough to convey the promise that there could be more.

“Hush now,” he said. “The adults are talking.”

The man shut up at once. Hanzo realized that McCree was wearing a suit but had _kept_ the boots with the spurs and quietly despaired.

“Good. And who might you be?” McCree asked, turning to Genji and looking him up and down.

“This is my wayward younger brother, Genji,” Hanzo said, before Genji could open his mouth and say something embarrassing. “I would like to apologize for anything he might do or say in advance.”

Genji huffed, but in an amiable way.

“You know, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” McCree said, tucking the revolver back into the holster under his jacket and resting his hands on his hips. They took a moment to survey the aftermath - a tablecloth had been set ablaze, a maître d' blubbered and clutched wine bottles to his chest like they were the only solid things in the world, the sprinklers had gone off and drizzled disconsolately on them. There were dead bodies littering the floor. “At least I usually choose to be friendly with people who can shoot a gravlax canape out of someone’s hand with an arrow from nine hundred feet. Call it a quirk of personality.”

Hanzo almost smiled and covered for it by brushing wood splinters from the brutalized table away from his shoulder. His left sleeve was torn. His mother would have been scandalized; she’d always impressed upon him the necessity of taking care of your clothes. “You are not such a terrible shot yourself.”

McCree shrugged self-effacingly. “I try. And I’ve shot a lot of people in the head over the years. Anyhow, let’s not overstay our welcome.”

“I think we already might have,” Genji said, guiding the maître d' into a chair in a kindly manner. “But I take your point. Let us leave.”

One of Hanzo’s guards stuck his head in through the doors to the kitchen, shamefaced. “My deepest apologies, sir, we were held up by armed -”

Hanzo waved him off. “No matter. Tie this one up and transport him to one of our bases. Find out what he knows.”

“As you say, sir, at once, sir.”

“Good.” Hanzo refolded the compact bow and put it in the suitcase with their things Genji had had the presence of mind to bring with him, then picked up the silver suitcase again and shoved the cash back in. “And deal with the security footage - we were never here.”

On their way out McCree kept glancing down at Hanzo’s arm through the tear in his shirt. When Hanzo raised a questioning eyebrow, he cleared his throat and said: “That’s quite the tattoo you’ve got there.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. “I…very well?”

McCree shrugged and looked away, the blush rising in his cheeks indicating he was embarrassed he’d been caught out.

Once they were outside and bathed in the harsh glare of the streetlights, McCree stopped and lifted a hand.

“Hang on… here we go,” McCree said, producing a canister from his inside pocket and handing it to Hanzo. “I almost forgot in all the excitement.”

“That does not seem like a lot,” said Genji, leaning over Hanzo’s shoulder to look.

“Doesn’t have to be,” McCree said. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know. What with the nano in nanotech being the operative word here.”

“Ah. I understand.”

Hanzo pushed the suitcase over.  “Our contribution.”

“Thank you kindly. You know, we should do this again some time,” McCree said. “Well, the doing business part, I mean, not the being shot at.”

“Indeed. I am sure we could come to an arrangement.”

McCree grinned widely and reached out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Hanzo hesitated but then shook his hand. McCree’s palm was dry and callused, and Hanzo was taken aback at how warm it was. The surprise made him hold on a little too long, and he stepped away, mortified. Genji gave him a sideways glance. “...yes. Likewise. We will keep in contact.”

“We have a plane to catch,” Genji said after a while, blessedly, as if temporarily possessed by an actual angel. “It was nice to meet you.”

McCree gave a lazy and sarcastic salute, but he smiled as he did, lighting a cigarette under the streetlight as they walked away and it quietly started to snow.

 

\-------

 

His father looked at him expectantly. “Now? How did it go?”

Hanzo took the canister and put it down on the floor in front of him with a clink. His father picked it up and turned it between his fingers. “I did rather mean if you had any difficulties, but I am glad you obtained this. Hm. Such a small thing.”

“So easily weaponized,” Hanzo said dryly. His father chuckled.

“You are too young to be so cynical. There are many uses we could put this to that would not require a single death. We do not _always_ have to go straight to murder. So. What was our contact like?”

 _Baffling_ , was the first thing that fell into his head, and the second was some variation on _spurs_ and _boots_ , but out loud he said: “He seems trustworthy enough. And wildly creative, come to that. I think staying in contact with him might be a… sound investment.”

“He did manage to get his hands on this, in some inconceivable way,” his father agreed, weighing the canister in his hand. “This is Overwatch-grade stuff. He must have his methods.”

Hanzo remembered the shots of the revolver and the sound of bodies falling to the ground that followed. “He is a good shot, I will tell you that.”

His father narrowed his eyes. Damn, they’d decided not to mention that part - it was not as though things hadn’t turned out okay, and what their father didn’t know couldn’t worry him. He worried too much as it was. “And how would you have been in a position to notice that.”

“Um. No reason. They were in the middle of a friendly shooting competition when I got there,” Hanzo invented wildly. "Quite impressive. If flashy."

His father looked unimpressed but let him off the hook. “Very well. We should establish a working relationship, then. I entrust this to you, my son - I never did have any luck with Americans, but you seem to have it well in hand. Well done.”

“Genji helped,” Hanzo said, because in fairness he might have been lying in a morgue right now if it wasn’t for his brother. The look on his father’s face made it worth it - all traces of pain went away and he shone with pride.

Hanzo wished he looked like that more often these days.

 

\-------

 

A few months later Hanzo called the number they’d been given for the Deadlock gang, and McCree’s voice answered on the other end.

**Author's Note:**

> This ‘verse could also be called ‘the AU where Overwatch did not recruit a seventeen year old and promptly sent him out on black ops missions’. You know I love all of you, but just… whut. whut were you thinking. (This also makes me think McCree either doesn’t have living parents at this point or if he does his parents are spectacularly shitty, because otherwise it’s really disturbing that they’d let that happen.) 
> 
> They’re either nineteen or twenty here, making Genji sixteen or seventeen.


End file.
